Words
by Gurrbill
Summary: Simple words were always the most powerful. Destiel. S9.


**Words**

Words were simple things.

There were so many of them, blooming across different languages and diverse people, belonging to many places and as unique as a fingerprint. Each one has it's own meaning, yet all they are is a combination of a few symbols.

Words could be used as weapons; to hurt and cut and bite like vicious snakes. Words could start momentous wars that raged across the land, as well as being able to end them. Words could heal wounds that even the strongest medicine could never treat. All with a few rolls of the tongue, the slide of lip over lip, the click of teeth shutting as a sound that can mean so much fell into the air, a light breath venturing into a cruel world of noise and blaring colours.

Words were simple, yes. But they were powerful too.

Castiel thought about words all the time. Even more so since he Fell. The angel in him had left, replaced by a thirst for knowledge and literature that seemed unquenchable.

He liked to read books - to indulge in the fictitious lives of heroes and heroines as they journeyed on epic quests, or the small lines of tiny poems that resided within the old pages of a ragged novel that sat on a dusty shelf. To him, they were signals - each little black letter leapt out at him and told a story of its' own. They spun him a tale of how far humanity had come, how human minds had learnt to shift the weight of the world with just voices, ink, and paper - how they could reach out and touch the lives of so many by only using their mouths or fingers.

Castiel associated certain words with certain things too.

For example, he'd often associate the bitter taste of coffee with 'morning', or the deadly glint of a gun with 'violence'. He'd see birds fly overhead and think wistfully of 'wings'. The sight of demons would bring forth ugly words, like 'hate' and 'ruin'. Sometimes he'd look at Sam and think 'bravery' or 'caring' or 'Dean'.

'Dean'.

That was the only word Castiel didn't quite understand yet.

'Dean' - when careful hands would cover his own as they rested on the covers of a book, callous thumbs stroking over his.

'Dean' - when lips would trail down his neck in a featherlight touch, pressing close and nipping playfully at his skin.

'Dean' - when gunshots would fire and an intense worry would instill itself deep in Castiel's gut.

'Dean' - when the smell of burning pancakes would fill the kitchen, and Sam's laughter would become loud as he stared at the fiasco before him.

It was the only word Castiel didn't understand because of its complexity. Any other word he had ever found had one singular meaning, no matter how many letters it had. 'Floccinaucinihilipilification' was easy to understand, yet it was one of the longest words in the English language.

But 'Dean'... 'Dean' had so many meanings.

Castiel would sometimes look into the depths of those green eyes and see a galaxy of words, jumping out at him and making his knees go weak and his tongue become heavy. He'd watch as the corners of those plump lips curled up as they beamed at him from under the covers, and he would see whole paragraphs of wonderful, flowing letters. He'd follow the glide of those talented hands as they slid up his bare thighs to stroke over the curve of his hips, and he'd breathe out the word again, adoring the feel of it on his lips.

_"Dean."_

And the raspy words he'd get in return were always worth it.

_"Cas."_

_"My angel."_

_"I'll take care of you."_

Like flames, words bedazzled and amazed him, dancing before his very eyes and shining brazenly in everything he saw. They brightened his life, curving and ducking in the most unexpected of ways, turning the darkest of situations light once again.

However, flames could also burn.

Harsh words made his skin feel alight in a completely unpleasant way. Syllables dripping with hate and hurt would make his heart twist painfully in his chest and prick the back of his eyes with hot pins. 'Argument' was another word associated with 'Dean', albeit rarely.

_"Get away from me."_

_"You have no right."_

_"You're nobody's angel."_

Those words would taunt him. Spiralling around and around in his head until he felt sick. He would stumble to the nearest doorway, lurch out into the cold of night, forearm shielding his face. His eyes would rake the dappled navy sky hanging above and he'd see the bright white stars twinkle back at him and he'd think 'flying'. 'Freedom'. 'Escape'.

'Forget'.

Just when he thought the sting of the bitter wind on his face would become too much, there would be a slight touch on his shoulder, a quiet breath and he'd turn. Those green orbs would be gleaming at him again, like a ray of sun bouncing through a golden shot of whisky in the heat of a summer day. Only two words would leap out at Castiel then.

_'I'm sorry.'_

Whether they were said aloud or not, Castiel would hear them. And he'd fall. Crumble into that touch and let strong arms envelope him until all he could feel was warmth and comfort. A kiss would be laid in his hair, followed by a heavy sigh, and Castiel would think 'ridiculous ' and 'hopeless'. But a smile would wind itself across his lips anyway. He'd hold on just that bit tighter.

Then there were goodbyes. Out of all the words Castiel hated to associate with 'Dean' the most, it was 'goodbye'.

Usually, 'goodbye' would only happen on hunts. The decision to split up would be made and there would be a hurried kiss on Castiel's cheek, followed by a rushed 'goodbye' dropping from the lips Castiel so often kissed. He would be left to wonder if that would be the last word he'd ever hear from his hunter. If, after that day, every time he heard the word 'goodbye', a lump would constrict his throat as the memory of his lover's death lapped at his eyes, leaving wet stripes across his cheeks. Would words have no meaning anymore, after the only one that Castiel had left to decipher was gone?

'Dean'.

It was scary to think that if that word ceased to exist, so would 'Castiel'.

A mixture of words would attack him as he saw that bow-legged form half an hour later. 'Relief' was the main one. 'Happiness' was another. 'Sickness' for the blood dripping from his lover's nose. An all manner of words that Castiel couldn't even begin to understand or articulate. For once, words would leave him. He would let his mind forget that it was supposed to be thinking, even if just for a minute. Instead, he would run to his hunter. Hold him close. Breathe in the slight tang of whisky he could smell. Relish the feel of firm hands on his hips. Savour the musky scent of that old leather jacket.

_"Dean."_

In times of trouble or stress, the word 'Dean' would spring to his lips easier than breathing. It was his go-to word; a panic button. And like some form of magic that could never be written about in any book or spoken in any language, the hunter would be there, grasping his hand tightly, his nose brushing Castiel's cheek. 'Safe'. 'Warm'. 'Unharmed'.

_"We'll be okay."_

And Castiel would believe it. He would always believe it. There was no other choice. Castiel hoped there never would be.

'Dean' was a frustrating word, that much was true. It would make Castiel's brow furrow, turn his lips into a frown of confusion. But at the same time, it could make him laugh. Make him cry. Heal him and hurt him in equal measure. Turn his head so far inside out that he didn't know left from right.

In that sense, 'Dean' was the most powerful word of all. Amongst numerous languages and endless combinations of letters, it was the only word to truly stupefy him. The mystery of it was what made Castiel's life worth living. It got him up in the morning and sent him to sleep at night. Made him forget his despair. Made him _happy_.

It made perfect sense, of course - because, after all...

Words were life's greatest medicine, weren't they?


End file.
